


Upon Servicing Mycroft

by kerasine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Business Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Oral Sex, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-27 02:10:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerasine/pseuds/kerasine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes has an orderly and comfortable life. Then he meets Greg Lestrade. Then things start to get interesting.</p><p>This is an alternate timeline where the characters are a little younger than in the series, a little earlier in their lives and careers, and perhaps a little less in control of themselves than they'd like to be!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Обслужив Майкрофта](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5078833) by [n1a1u](https://archiveofourown.org/users/n1a1u/pseuds/n1a1u)



Mycroft dropped the file folder into his briefcase and clicked it shut with a heavy sigh. He leaned back in the padded leather chair, stretching his legs out in the roomy area under the large mahogany desk in his favorite of the Diogenes Club's private meeting rooms. He rubbed his face with tired hands and then pulled his gold pocket watch from his waistcoat. It was almost time for his Friday evening appointment. Good. After that, he could be off for home.

He removed the watch and laid it carefully on the desktop, then removed his grey suit jacket and folded it carefully over the back of his chair, leaving him in his waistcoat, trousers, and crisp white shirt sleeves. He poured himself a small glass of brandy from the corner bar and moved to one of the padded armchairs in the center of the room. He arranged himself comfortably to wait, took a sip of his drink, and dropped the cushion from the chair onto the floor in front of his feet. He was, after all, a gentleman, and thought to the comfort of his guests.

The knock at his door came right on time and he called out, "Enter." A petite, attractive blonde woman in a slim-fitting black skirt and pale yellow silk blouse entered the room carrying a small dish of warmed oil and several white towels on a tray. Mycroft guessed her age to be in her upper twenties. She had classic features, wore minimal make-up, and had her hair styled in a simple chignon. He nodded to her politely, and she nodded back with a pleasant expression that was not quite a smile.

Mycroft took one more sip of brandy and then leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes as his guest went through the procedure for their appointment. Mycroft felt one the towels, properly warmed, dry, and heavy, placed across his lap and a second just above the waistline of his trousers. He heard the soft rustle of fabric as the woman knelt on the cushion in front of his parted knees, and felt the tugs as she opened his belt and unzipped his flies.

They would not exchange words. Their interaction would be perfunctory and professional. Not every member of the Diogenes Club availed himself of this particular service, but Mycroft found it useful in maintaining mental and physical wellbeing. He preferred a different guest at each visit. He preferred oral stimulation. The variety kept the interactions interesting enough for him and discouraged familiarity with his guests. Sometimes his guests were female, sometimes male, of a variety of ages and appearances within an acceptable range. All were highly skilled and all were properly vetted for cleanliness and discretion.

The woman's warm fingers gently removed his still-flaccid penis from its confines and she began to use her hand, tongue, and lips to stimulate him to erection. His preferences in this matter were always observed by his guests—begin by stroking the shaft slowly with one hand, slightly lubricated, whilst sliding the lips and tongue gently over the foreskin. As erection proceeds, gradually increase tempo of stroke and firmness of grip whilst laving the glans and frenulum. At appearance of pre-ejaculate, maintain a steady stroke with the hand whilst continuing to stimulate the head of the penis, adding the elements of gentle sucking and circling the glans with the tongue. Maintain a steady and relaxing pace until orgasm is achieved. Do not attempt to incorporate contact with the testicles, perineum, or anus. Ejaculate should be swallowed or otherwise prevented from soiling clothing. Leave one warmed towel along with a damp, scented flannel on the tray and close the office door quietly when exiting.

Mycroft's guest was currently at the third phase of the procedure, beginning to circle the tip of his penis with her tongue. Mycroft allowed himself a slight nod of approval and a glance down at the shiny blonde head bobbing diligently away in his lap. They should be finished right on schedule. He closed his eyes again until the session was satisfactorily concluded.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft somewhat regretfully missed the following week's appointment due to a crisis in China, but was back on schedule the week after. When his appointment time arrived, he prepared himself as usual, jacket draped over the desk chair in the private room, cushion placed courteously on the floor, a whisky this time in the glass on the side table, and waited for the knock on the door. When it came, he bid his guest enter. It was a man today, slightly older than usual, although boyish in his facial features, with short-cropped hair that mingled silver and black, and dark brown eyes. He did have a rough touch of beard stubble, and Mycroft frowned slightly at the with a flicker of concern over potential abrasions. His guests were always clean-shaven, but would trust for now that it would not be an issue. He made a mental note that he might have to discuss his preferences in grooming with the service management staff, though. Apart from this minor anomaly, his guest was pleasantly attractive, simply-dressed in a white button-down shirt and soft grey suit, and seemed satisfactory for the task at hand.

The man carried the tray of warm towels and oil in with him, and Mycroft nodded politely. He settled into his armchair, leant his head back, and closed his eyes. He heard the oil bottle wobble noisily on the wooden tray as the man stepped further into the room. Another indicator that this man was most likely relatively new to this sort of work.

"Mr. Holmes?" The man held up the tray. "This was out—"

Mycroft jolted upright, startled, appalled. " _Tace_! Silence!" There were allowances to be made for inexperience, after all, and then there was _unacceptable_. The man stopped in his tracks, a bewildered expression giving his brown eyes a sad puppy quality. He opened his mouth to speak again and Mycroft quickly held up his hand.  He did not often have to offer correction, but it was best done firmly when it was necessary. Puppy eyes notwithstanding. "Perhaps you are _new_ ," Mycroft said softly, eyes narrowing, "But the rules of this engagement should have been clear to you. My contract does not involve the use your mouth for _conversation_. Do you understand?"

The man's eyebrows flew up in surprise. Mycroft sighed and gentled his tone slightly. "Very well. I would be pleased if you would kindly proceed with your services in the _established_ manner." He gestured toward the cushion on the floor in front of his chair elegantly, and leant back once again in his chair. He closed his eyes, opened his knees, and waited.

Mycroft heard a huffing sound. _Laughter_? Impossible. Mycroft would most certainly be contacting management after this appointment. He sighed and tried to release the tension in his brow. There was a rustle of fabric, a soft _thunk_ as the tray was placed on the rug, and another rustle that must be the sound of knees sinking into the cushion.

Warm hands on his knees. Sliding up his thighs over the fabric of his trousers. No towels? Laying hands all over his _clothing_? Again Mycroft opened his eyes, tensing to protest, when he met the man's warm gaze. He was _grinning_ at him. Cheek, pure cheek! "Relax," the man instructed lazily, flicking his eyes over Mycroft's face. Mycroft gawped at him as an entirely unexpected and peculiar flutter of warmth hit his lower abdomen.

His eyes never leaving Mycroft's, the man slid one hand to cup Mycroft's balls through the fabric of his trousers and then up to gently squeeze his testicles and penis together. Mycroft's breath came out in a small squeak of surprise.  His face flushed with indignation and he started to push himself forward in the chair.

"I _said_ relax," the man said firmly, pushing him back into his place with a hand to his stomach, smirking as if this misconduct were somehow _amusing_. The man rubbed one large, rough hand over Mycroft's belly and repeated, "Just relax." His other hand squeezed Mycroft's genitals again and started to move in a teasing circle over the fabric. It was not…entirely unpleasant. Mycroft swallowed and relaxed into the chair, watching the man through half-lidded eyes. Maybe it wouldn't…hurt to see what happened next.

The man's hand continued its massaging circles against the fabric covering Mycroft's gradually hardening cock. With his other hand, the man was shoving Mycroft's waistcoat and shirt up so he could touch the skin beneath. Mycroft gasped, half self-conscious at the softness of his belly, half at the surprising sensation of being touched where no one ever touched him. He felt vulnerable. He _never_ felt vulnerable. It was even more erotic than the touches to his penis. He heard himself make a startled sound, and squirmed.

The man laughed softly and continued to squeeze and rub the soft flesh of Mycroft's midsection with one hand as he unfastened Mycroft's belt and flies with the other, tugging his trousers down roughly. Mycroft knew his eyes must be as large as saucers now and he tried to find his voice. "I—this isn't—"

"Shut up," the man growled, pulling Mycroft's silk boxers down far enough to free his already leaking cock. The man stared up at him, and Mycroft stared back, unable to keep his hips from wriggling in anticipation and utterly horrified at himself. "That's better," the man purred at him, and bent his head to lick a wet stripe along the underside of Mycroft's erection. Mycroft's moan was absurdly loud, and he flushed in shame, digging his fingers into the arms of his chair.

With his tongue curling around the head of Mycroft's cock, the man looked up at Mycroft's face again and _winked_ as he wriggled his hand from Mycroft's stomach under his shirt and waistcoat to pinch one of his nipples. Mycroft moaned again, even louder than before, his cock twitching against the man's mouth, his toes curling inside his shoes. The man squeezed the shaft of his cock, twisted his nipple, and teeth, _teeth_ , and hot mouth all around him and oh god—Mycroft's eyes rolled back in his head.

Wet, disgusting slurping sounds echoed through the big room along with Mycroft's wanton groans as the man began to suck and stroke Mycroft's cock in earnest, fast and rough, and pinching and rubbing his nipples and belly and _teeth_ again and that hurt and it was so good, and it went on forever, and it was too fast, and it was so, so, so, _so_ —Mycroft thrust himself uncontrollably into that hot mouth and ejaculated with an undignified yelp.

When the white stars cleared from his vision, he realized both his hands were clenched in the man's salt and pepper hair. He let go, panting, whimpering, as his softening penis slid from the man's warm lips. The man smirked and rocked himself backward to pluck the damp flannel from the tray and wipe his mouth with it. He tossed it haphazardly back on top of the pile of warm towels.

"You…" Mycroft said, and stopped when he realized that for the first time in recent memory, he had no idea what he wanted to say. None whatsoever. His skin was hot and damp and his brain was buzzing.

The man rose to his feet, smoothing the knees of his grey trousers. "Detective Sergeant Lestrade." He pulled a card from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table beside Mycroft's chair. He picked up Mycroft's glass of whisky and took a swig, nose wrinkling as he swallowed. "Afraid I have to be going, Mr. Holmes. Only had a couple minutes, see, but I thought we should talk. I think we may have a mutual acquaintance we should discuss."

Mycroft gaped.

The man walked to the door and opened it. A short, lithe, brown-haired young man hovered uncertainly in the hallway, peering into the meeting room with large, nervous eyes. Lestrade nodded to him politely. "Pleasure to meet you. Number's on the card."

The door closed softly. Mycroft looked down at himself, slouched in his chair with his hopelessly wrinkled trousers bunched around his thighs, flaccid penis nestled in his thatch of auburn pubic hair, equally ravaged waistcoat rucked up around his sweaty white midriff. He looked at the business card on the table.

 _Oh, God_.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft told himself he waited three days to contact Lestrade due to his desire to be thorough in conducting his background investigation, but in truth he had the man's full dossier by the next morning. Perhaps he was just waiting for the start of the new business week. Yes, that was it. It wasn't nerves. It wasn't _fear_ , for pity's sake.

Mycroft spent his Sunday afternoon by the fire in his library with Detective Sergeant G. Lestrade's—Greg's—file folder spread over his lap. Wearing only his bathrobe instead of his usual suit made it much easier to touch himself as he examined each of the photos provided in great detail, eyes fluttering shut in memory of that hot, wet mouth and those rough fingertips. Once he was thoroughly ashamed of himself based on the number of soiled tissues he'd collected beside his chair, he turned his attention to the rest of the information. Greg Lestrade was apparently dedicated to his career, and a bit of a rising star at Scotland Yard. He had a father currently residing in, for some reason, Dorset, but otherwise no significant personal attachments. An excellent health record, Mycroft noted with a quirk of one dark eyebrow. Nothing to suggest any particular vices outside of the occasional visit to the pub. Casual dating history, mostly women. There was no hint of the man who had… _ravaged_ Mycroft not two days ago.

On Monday morning, Mycroft inspected himself even more thoroughly than usual in his full-length standing mirror before leaving his home. Dark grey pinstriped bespoke three-piece suit (slimming), pale green shirt (brought out his eyes), light grey tie with emerald accents (dignified), auburn hair combed back and perfectly in place (in control).

When he presented himself at New Scotland Yard, Mycroft was directed to Lestrade's desk on an upper floor in the center of a busy common room. Lestrade's silvering head was bent in concentration as he pored over a set of documents on his desk. The tip of his tongue was peeking out to touch the corner of his mouth as he read. Mycroft took a deep breath and approached, clearing his throat when he reached Lestrade's desk. "Detective Sergeant," he said crisply.

Lestrade's chocolate-brown eyes flicked up to meet his and sparked with recognition and mischief, a half-grin quirking his lips. Mycroft's gaze dropped automatically to those lips, and he mentally cursed his fair skin complexion as he felt heat flush his cheeks. Lestrade licked his lips slowly and let his gaze drift up and down Mycroft's body. Mycroft had no idea where to put his hands. He stuffed them in his pockets.

"Mr. Holmes," Lestrade acknowledged him. "Thank you for coming." His eyes flashed with humor.

Mycroft wasn't sure whether he wanted to turn and run or to jump into the Detective Sergeant's lap, but he managed to avoid both by pinching his leg hard through his trouser pocket. "It was my pleasure," he said smoothly, and felt a rush of triumph as he observed Lestrade's pupils dilate in response. "You mentioned a mutual acquaintance. Would I be mistaken in presuming you are referring to my brother?"

Lestrade smirked and leant back in his chair, his teasing expression fading away. "Yeah. Sit down, Mr. Holmes," he gestured to a battered wooden chair beside his desk. Mycroft folded himself into it uncomfortably. As busy as the office area was, it was not loud, and Lestrade bent his head closer to Mycroft's to make their conversation a little more private. "First off, he's fine now."

Mycroft's brows drew down. "What do you mean, _now_?"

Lestrade narrowed his eyes, watching Mycroft's face carefully. "You know he's using, right?" he asked bluntly.

"Using what—oh. No. I…no. My brother and I have lived very separate lives for some time, Detective Inspector. I was not aware of this…development in his."

Lestrade's stare was uncomfortably penetrating. "Well then. Your brother had a bad night last week. He ended up with me, fortunately. Said a lot of things he probably wishes he hadn't, if he remembers any of them. One of them was your name. I never even knew he had a brother before. So I looked you up." He nodded to the computer on his desk. "The lack of information told me a lot, eh? But I tracked you down." He looked smug.

Mycroft opened his mouth, but found he had nothing ready to say, and closed it.

"He's not an addict. Not yet. But he's headed that way fast, and I for one would like to stop it."

Mycroft narrowed his own eyes. "Why?"

Lestrade's expression gentled. "I like him." He sounded amazed at his own admission.

"You _like_ him," Mycroft repeated suspiciously. "Forgive me for sounding surprised, Detective Sergeant, but my brother was never one to make _friends_ easily." His spine chilled suddenly. "Or…perhaps not friends. Are you…?" Those hands, that mouth, touching his _brother_? No. _No_.

"No!" Lestrade denied adamantly. "And I never said it was _easy_ being his friend, but somehow…here we are." He tapped a finger impatiently on his desk. "So what I want to know is this: Do you care at all about helping your brother?"

Mycroft scowled. "Of course I—of course I'll help him."

"Glad to hear it. Here's the deal, then. I'm offering you my service in doing so. But I'll need a certain level of assistance that might be…outside of my reach. I'm thinking you can provide it."

Mycroft breathed in slowly through his nose, considering. "My service, then, in exchange for yours. If you can provide evidence of what you claim to be true regarding my brother, of course, as well as your alleged concern in his best interests." Mycroft could find out for himself, of course, but it was always interesting to see what was offered first.

Lestrade regarded him quietly for several moments, then stood abruptly. "Follow me," he said with a jerk of his head toward a doorway on the far side of the room, and walked away.

Mycroft rose and trailed after him, puzzled. Lestrade opened the door to a dimly lit room full of filing cabinets, held it open for Mycroft to follow him in.

"What--?" Mycroft began, and the door closed behind him with a _snick_ and then his breath huffed out as Lestrade pressed him against it. "Greg," Mycroft squeaked in surprise, and there was a hot breath of laughter in his ear, and a hand sliding up the inside of his thigh.

"You know… _Mycroft_ …I meant this to be a professional sort of relationship. But the way you _speak_ to me…" His mouth found Mycroft's, hot and fierce, claiming it with his teeth and tongue. Mycroft moaned into it, shamed once again by his immediately wanton response. His fingers clutched at Lestrade's shoulders, hair. His hips bucked up, seeking contact.  Lestrade pressed him harder against the back of the door with a hand to the center of his chest and bit him on the neck. _Bit_ him, and growled, "If you have any of those _personal_ appointments scheduled for this week, cancel them."

"Yes," breathed Mycroft.

"Good." Lestrade squeezed his cock. "I'll be in touch."

He left Mycroft, panting and painfully erect, in the dark file room.


End file.
